Second Kiss
by Idonotthinkthatwordmeans
Summary: I've long wanted more Chapter 62. What happens between scenes?
1. Chapter 1

**BAZ**

Snow grabs my neck, his mouth on mine, and all my words go up in smoke. I want to give myself over to this, to him, completely.

Of course I can't. I can't even hope. There's the minor detail that we're mortal enemies. (Still.) (Talk is cheap.) Not to mention that Snow isn't gay. (Is he?)

Whatever Snow is - or isn't - _he_ doesn't seem to be wasting any time thinking about it. (Typical.) He just - acts. With this irresistible conviction. Pulling me in closer, angling his head to kiss me more deeply. Grazing my lips, possessing my mouth.

My thoughts dissolve, my body responds without conscious volition. I grab his shoulders and only by sheer force of will stop my fingers from tearing into the neck of his jumper, finding the heat of his skin. But I can't stop myself from kissing him back relentlessly. A flicker of fear stings me - I'm trying and failing, miserably, to reign in years' worth of hunger - it must be too much. I flinch, anticipating his return to sanity, his inevitable revulsion.

Shockingly he's not turned off by my reaction - the opposite, it seems - he wraps his other arm around me and presses against me, harder. His tongue deeper in my mouth. As though he's trying to close all the gaps between us. I gasp a breath and it's the smoky smell of him - he's everywhere, invading my senses - _Simon Snow_.

More - now he's pushing me with intention, I could fall - let the elemental forces of Snow and gravity take whatever this is to the rug - when " _OW! Aleister fucking Crowley!_ " His wretched cross scalds the exposed skin of my neck before I can flinch away.

"Oh! Sorry! I'm sorry! Here - sorry - you okay?" Snow rips the cross off, throwing it across the room and leaning back into my neck in one fluid motion, gently kissing the spot. "Here, yeah? Did it burn?"

"Not much - it was quick - " I vaguely register a metallic clink. I can't think past his mouth - my voice doesn't come out right, I'm breathless.

Snow hears the tremor in my voice and his eyes flash, rapidly shifting from apology back to urgency. Kissing my neck, my ear. His hand in my hair. His fingers stroking my back. Chills tingle down my spine and I make a mental note to revisit these other kisses (who knew?) sometime in the future (what future?) but this might be all I ever get - so I need his mouth on mine. Now. I barely stop myself from moaning when I pull his lips back to me. His eyes glint and he pushes harder, his tongue insistent. My body responds, demanding more - aching for more.

But I hold back. I follow his lead. I need him to lead. However far he's willing to go, I'm already there. I've spent night after night there. I want his mouth. His hands. My hands, on his golden skin. For years I lay awake in our room, breathing him in, imagining the thousands of ways we could come together. And now that this is happening, I'm simultaneously staggered by desire and tormented with fear.

How much saliva would it take to Turn him? What if I can't hide the rapidly growing evidence of how much I want him? What will ruin this first - monster that I am, will I accidentally hurt him? Or simply make him recoil in disgust?

At what point will he come to his senses and realize that he's not gay. (Is he?) And he doesn't want this. (Does he?) And he doesn't want me. (How could he?)

My remaining thoughts are extinguished by a surge of heat as I kiss him harder, desperately fighting to keep the rest of my body still - because I'm walking a line - no, balancing on a precipice. Using my last shred of self-control to keep from falling into him completely, while leaning precariously over the edge to meet him. (Wherever he is.) (For as long as he'll stay.)

 _Crowley_. I thought this couldn't possibly go on. Snow can be a right muppet but even he has to realize that this is insane. My saliva alone could be disaster - _shit_ \- panic wells up in my chest.

But. Snow clearly wants more. His breathing is ragged now and he's pushing me harder, his hands exploring, stroking down my shirt with increasing urgency. He's so beautiful, gleaming metal in my arms. I can't think...his mouth and his hands overwhelm me. I barely stop myself from moaning his name, but I do concede a little - enough to let him push me down into the rug. I'm on my back and his chest is pressing into mine. His hands brush my face, lighting a trail of fire up my jaw before tangling in my hair. I make an incoherent noise - it's embarrassing. Snow pauses, his mouth twitching into a smirk. "The terrifying Baz Pitch - who would've thought?"

"Shut up, Snow." A feeble retort but it's all I've got. He looks at me intently, his blue eyes darken and he lunges for me again.

Thus far I've succeeded in restraining myself admirably, all things considered, but when he smirks at me and presses down into me again...I think I lose my mind a little. I feel my arms tighten around him. I feel my hands unleash, looping through his curls, stroking his back. Heat radiates through his jumper. _Hot, alive._

I ache for his skin and the ache keeps expanding through my core, but somehow I stop myself from tearing into (off?) his shirt, and somehow I keep my hips angled away. Somehow I don't grab his hand and push it down onto me. (I should get a medal for this restraint.) (It's a product of fear, but it's restraint nonetheless.) Kissing boys and girls might be about the same, and maybe tumbling around is pretty close - not that I know - but I'm terrified to drive the differences home.

 **SIMON**

Now I've really got him where I want him. We're on the floor on this ridiculous posh furry rug that seems conveniently placed for Baz to seduce people. (Though I obviously can't accuse of that in this specific situation.) The kissing in the woods was good (so good) - but when I leaned into him again just now I was a little surprised at how quickly he shut up and how intensely he kissed me back. And then one thing led to another and now I'm not exactly sure what we're doing down here or what to do next. I never honestly got much farther with Agatha so I don't even have that to go on. But I've realized this is definitely on my Baz list and so here we are.

I'm concentrating on his cool mouth and the sensation of his lean torso pressed up against mine when his hands finally come to life and start touching my back. The feeling of his long, elegant fingers...stroking me...it does something to me. I've been having trouble breathing properly this whole time and now it's worse. (Better?) He's still partly twisted away though and I _have_ to be closer, so in one swift motion I roll us onto our sides. There. I'm acting on pure instinct, grabbing at his waist to pull him tightly into me - when he tenses and his eyes jerk open.

"Snow-"

"Yeah?"

"Snow - I -"

Baz, at a loss for words? My hand stills on his hip and it takes a surprising amount of effort to pull my head away from him slightly. "Baz, what? What's wrong?"

 **BAZ**

Traitorous body. Craving blood, craving him. All I want is to grind into him. More. As much as he'll allow.

And he's acting like he wants more, too. Wants me. I could just - let him. Let myself. The thought of really touching him - pressing myself into his muscled thigh - feeling _him_ -

 _Crowley_.

But. I can't wrap my head around him being with Agatha for so long, and then in the space of an hour not only snogging me but ending up below the belt - how could that not mess with his head?

Worse. How could it not jolt him back to his senses? How could this whole thing not come to a screaming halt (likely with actual screaming)?

I need a distraction - now.

"Snow, no, nothing's wrong. We just need to - pause for a moment. We're about to destroy one of my favorite suits. It's already hopelessly wrinkled." I put a little sneer into it. To try to hide how my voice is shaking.

"A suit?" Snow says incredulously. "Shit, Baz, you want to stop for a suit?" He closes his eyes and swallows hard, visibly collecting himself. He leans into my ear, quietly, he breathes, "d'you really want to stop?" His nose brushes my neck and his hand tightens on my hip for an instant - an instant where I nearly lose all self-control - but when I don't answer and don't look at him, he abruptly jerks away and stands, roughly swiping his curls out of his eyes. He shakes his head and then seems to make a decision - he juts his chin forward stubbornly and holds out his hand to help me up.

Which I ignore. If I touch him right now - that's it, I'm done. I'd pull him right back down on me, shred all the clothing in my way, his and mine, sod that suit - and doubtless unnerve him so thoroughly he'd run screaming out of the house.

Instead I rise smoothly to my feet (without assistance) and quickly put some distance between us, tossing him pyjamas from the drawer. "Here. You'll find the bathroom down the hall," I say formally, gesturing, still resolutely looking away. Anywhere but at him.

He goes very still. My heart turns to stone as I feel him withdraw, sense the hurt and confusion radiating from him as he turns and walks out.


	2. Chapter 2

**SIMON**

I can feel my face flushing. As I walk down the shadowy hall my stomach churns. He wants this, right? Wants - me? The way he touched me...my stomach twists... So why are we stopping for a suit? He's a posh git - doesn't he have a wardrobe full of suits, and a maid to keep them all perfect? Not to mention anti-wrinkle spells? ( ** _Smooth as silk_ **pops into my head.) (Which makes me think of his skin.) (Which makes me flush even harder.)

So. Did I do something wrong? _Shit_. Agatha never seemed to like this sort of thing either. We kissed a lot but whenever I tried to get closer she'd pull back. Maybe I'm actually terrible at this? It's hard to tell what's more painful right now - my confusion, growing embarrassment, or what I'm shocked to realize is this intense misery at being away from him, even for a few minutes. What's _wrong_ with me? _Bloody_ _hell_.

 **BAZ**

I wait a moment and then almost run to my bathroom, the other way down the hall. I slam the benighted suit on the floor and throw on my pyjamas. As I stare in the mirror, the small part of my brain that's still functioning notes, clinically, that I look deranged. My eyes are wild, all of the blood that I have is pounding in my ears, and I'm so hard - my entire body aches - do I have time for drastic measures? I can't think. It wouldn't take long, not in this state - but now that I'm away from him all I want is to run back.

I have to do _something_ to take the edge off, so I rinse my hands and face in the coldest possible water. Then nervous energy propels me back to my room. Head spinning, I perch casually on the chest by the bed. Its ancient, studded wooden top is ludicrously uncomfortable, so I impatiently fling myself at the couch instead. I manage that for all of thirty seconds before I surge back to my feet and pace.

What precisely did I hope to gain from this interruption? If by some miracle he wants to kiss me again, I _have_ to kiss him back. If he decides he's done with me, just wants to sleep, it'll be all I can do not to claim onto the couch with him. (If it comes to that, I might even beg.) (Snake's sake, I'm a moron.)

 **SIMON**

I take my time. My stomach's still churning and waves of hurt-confused-embarrassment keep threatening to utterly flood me, but I roughly shove all that away and try to stay focused on the simple mechanics of washing up.

This particular Pitch guest bathroom (one of many, I'm sure) is stocked with big bottles of soap, lotions, and hair products, and piles of soft fluffy blue towels. Everything feels and smells expensive.

I shuck Baz's jumper and my Watford trousers on the floor, slip on Baz's pyjamas, and roll the waist so they fit better. (Damn him.) (All six feet two of him.) Of course they're silk, with this loud blue and gold pattern. I can't stop myself from making a face in the mirror.

My stomach is still twisting and I'm still unable to form clear thoughts, but standing here in these ridiculous silk pyjamas what starts to feel right is that Baz really _is_ such a pretentious tosser that he really _would_ interrupt us over something as idiotic as a suit. It doesn't necessarily mean that he wants to stop completely. (Or that I'm terrible at this.) (Unless it does.) ( _Shit_.)

Stop. Breathe.

I shake my head and try to get my thoughts in any kind of order. Yeah - I still want to kiss him. (And kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him...) The feeling of my stomach doing flip-flops - it's even stronger than when we were first drawn together as roommates at Watford. Irresistible. I feel this relentless _pull_ to be with him, like I have to run down the hall and jump him _right now_.

But - wait - focus - I need a different approach. The direct attack has worked so far - but now what? What if I grab him again and he shakes me off? Levels me with that superior look and a crack about me ruining his pyjamas too? I'd feel like a right moron.

I try to think about what Penny would do. I mean not specifically at Baz, of course, but how she might handle this. I always just come straight at things. Penny does too but she also has this uncanny ability to fall back, lulling her opponents into complacency while she goes in sideways - only to hit them right between the eyes with something they never saw coming...

 **BAZ**

It's been ages. I'm imagining increasingly-horrific worst-case scenarios (the mildest of which involves Snow running straight out the door and back to Watford, propelled by how much he hates me). (Which he only just now remembered.) (Because I am a complete and utter moron.)

I've always been top of my class. How is it possible that the depths of my idiocy are this profound? How much of an irredeemable twat am I to stop what is literally (I do not mean metaphorically) (I mean literally) the single best thing that's ever happened to me? _I_ pushed _Simon_ away?

My face is buried in my hands and I've sunk so deep in these thoughts, berating myself, that when Snow finally knocks I fairly jump through my skin.

"Baz." All he has to do is glance at me and my stone-cold heart re-animates. Accelerates to the point that I forget how to meet his eyes, and where to go - do I stay standing? Sit? (Throw up?) (Throw him on the bed?) I can't seem to talk either. _Crowley_.

"It's pretty late," he continues, in this overly casual tone. My racing heart stalls out, starts to plummet. "Let's lie down." Without waiting for my response he grabs a pillow from the couch and one from my bed, then arranges himself and the pillows on the rug, facing the fire. The light flickers on his faintly golden skin. He pushes his curls back from his forehead and studiously avoids looking at me. I can feel him waiting.

 **SIMON**

See, Penny? Remember that time sixth year when you slowly lured the sloth demon my way so I could blow it up?

 **BAZ**

If I weren't so far gone in a chaotic mixture of self-loathing veined by the smallest, most exquisitely painful needlings of hope - I would find this very interesting. An unexpected nuance to add to my obsessive mental catalog of the Character of Simon Snow, Chosen One.

I genuinely can't recall ever witnessing Snow practice restraint or subtlety of any kind. A sane person (or non-person, as the case may be) might take this unlikely opportunity to _actually_ slow things down. Go to bed. (Separate beds.) See what happens in the morning. Safest yet, wake up and pretend like this entire night never happened.

I clearly am in no danger of sanity when it comes to Snow, however, so I take a step toward him.

Then another. I'm trying not to sprint across the room.

I'm next to him on the floor.

We're so close - I breathe him in and the overwhelming relief that washes through me makes me weak. But we're not quite touching. Suddenly my lungs struggle to function. What now? How do I close this appalling gap? Can I reach for him? Or - did I irretrievably forfeit that right when I pushed him away?

 **SIMON**

Good. If vampires are anything like sloth demons, now all I have to do is wait.

(If I can ever explain this to you properly, Penny, I think you'll be proud of me.)

 **BAZ**

The fire is dying down, glowing red. At this time of night the darkness has a distinct texture, between us. We lie there for a few minutes, breathing. Not touching. Resolutely not looking at each other.

For the second time this evening I simply don't know how to proceed. _Simon - I want you, desperately - but I'm terrified. Of how we're really still enemies. Of how much you can handle being with a boy before you recoil in revulsion. And worst of all - I'm terrified of myself. Of what I am._

 _I simply can't imagine a world in which a monster like me has the right to so much as look at you, let alone touch you._

I wouldn't have thought it possible to be this miserable, so close to the insanely attractive object of one's desire. (No. Fuck this. More than desire. Love.) For that matter, I wouldn't have thought it possible to be this attracted to someone while simultaneously experiencing incapacitating levels of fear. (Trust Simon to reduce me to this.) (If I had any mental circuitry remaining I would also be thoroughly irritated.)

But I don't. My thoughts are blurring and I'm so cold. My skin still retains the temperature of the icy water and it's intensified by a near-physical pain, cold spikes of fear stabbing into my mind. The fire crackles faintly but its heat seems very far away. I can't get past my head. _Your move, Snow. Please._

He's still. His breathing is quiet, even. Is that bastard going to fall asleep on me? Consign me to a night of petrified, lustful misery? I sneak a look at his unfairly arresting profile through nearly-closed eyes. It's like all these years of waiting, watching - poised to attack. But now I'm hoping against hope that he'll reach out to me. (Again.) (Gift me with another chance.) (Even though I know I don't deserve it.)

Finally. Snow moves. (Thank Crowley he compulsively plays the hero.) But he takes his time. Stretches out one finger. Slowly. Lightly - so lightly - strokes the back of my hand. I shiver under his touch and he instantly drops the casual act for concern. "Baz, you're freezing! What the hell did you do, take an ice bath? Come _here_."

He chafes my cold hands in his, then wraps his arms around me, pulling me in. My head falls into his shoulder and I don't stop it. I feel the heat of his body - his magic - radiating from him and warming my skin. I want him, I need him so badly, my breath catches. He brightens and looks at me expectantly, but I'm holding myself completely still. In my stubborn terror I still can't seem to look at him or speak.

He shakes his head at the mixed signals. Finally, he blurts out, "Just - d'you still want me to kiss you?"

Yes. _Yes_.

Why can't I tell him? Am I trying to protect him - or myself? "I don't know," I mutter to the floor.

 **SIMON**

Arse! We're _this_ close! What's he playing at? Is he trying to drive me completely mental?

 **BAZ**

Snow makes a frustrated noise in his throat. My heart plummets - _what am I doing_? But instead of turning away, he pulls me in more tightly. "Fine," he growls, "I'll play your bloody game. Is that a 'no'?"

Our noses are practically touching now but I still don't make eye contact. I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin. Obviously I can't say no. But I, who can cast fluently (and idiomatically) in four languages, am apparently too much of a coward to speak at all.

"Baz." I feel his lips on my hair. "Is that a 'no'?"

I close my eyes. Heat rushes through me and my heart is pounding in my throat. _This can only end in flames..._

"Baz." He growls again, this time with considerable menace, though his lips belie that by very gently brushing my jaw. "Is that a 'no'?"

It's more than I can take. Of course it's yes. It's always been yes. I sigh and almost imperceptibly nudge my face closer to his.

Which is when everything explodes. He gasps and attacks my mouth as though he had barely been holding himself back. All of my asinine fears go up in smoke as I grab him and kiss him, clinging to his shoulders. His tongue is in my mouth and his hands are - everywhere. His fingers slip in at my waist, under the loose silk of the pyjama shirt. Snow's earlier heroics in the woods not withstanding, I think I might combust after all; I accidentally moan his name and he chuckles slightly.

"Now I see -" his hand strokes up my side, my back, caressing my bare skin - "this _is_ much better than a suit."

"Shut up, Snow." I try to sound imperious, but the effect is ruined when I shiver in the middle of it - his other hand has joined the first one under my shirt.

"But I'm still curious -" he sucks on my lip, then trails hot kisses down my neck. "You never said you don't want to kiss me. But you also never said you do."

"Shut _up_ , Snow." I kiss him harder to make sure he'll stop talking.

He snorts and rolls on top of me. Only this time he's careful; he must be afraid I'll pull away again, so he doesn't try to press himself against me. (I'm both relieved and immensely disappointed by this.) Instead he hovers just above me, holding himself up on all fours. He leans down to kiss me, demanding, his tongue in my mouth. Then he stops. "Baz. Kiss me."

He stares at me intently, his face slowly flushing as he waits. I think of how he came here, to me. I think of his unexpected patience. I think of how brave he is, to reach across the chasm between us. With his body and his words. Again. And again.

I finally find the courage to meet his eyes.

"Baz. _Dammit_. Kiss me."

I do. I reach up for his mouth and kiss him as hard as I can.


End file.
